


Disguised by Sobriety

by corialis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:43:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corialis/pseuds/corialis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drinking is not the best way to get one's mind off a crush on one's flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disguised by Sobriety

_It is most absurdly said, in popular language, of any man, that he is disguised in liquor; for, on the contrary, most men are disguised by sobriety.  
\- Thomas de Quincy, Confessions of an English Opium-Eater_

John is drunk. And he is worried that he's drunk, because he's never seen Sherlock indulge in any sort of even half-illicit substance beyond nicotine patches despite his alleged junkie past, and those hardly count. It's just the judgmental look he sees in Sherlock's eyes as he watches various drunks stumbling out of bars, like he thinks slightly less of them for needing to dull what little senses they have.

He hadn't really meant for it to happen. A group from work gone down to the pub around the block with the just-hired new doctor and somehow his usual stream of thoughts about Sherlock's hair or his eyes or his mouth just wouldn't shut up even with the cute nurse there and somehow getting drunker to make them just _shut up_ had seemed like a good idea. Sherlock was stupid anyway, all holed up in their flat sulking over missing some detail of their last case. Sulky. And rude. Even if people are usually rude to him first. It's not an excuse. 

“I don't think you even like me,” he mumbles from the chair he had fallen into when he at last stumbled back to 221B, and Sherlock's head jerks around and his eyebrows furrow like they do every time John makes some completely inaccurate deduction.

“Seriously, John.”

Sherlock's voice when he says John's name makes small tendrils of heat start curling low in his stomach and he mentally – slowly – bats them aside. 

“ 'S true. You're mean to me. Even though you're all smart and gorgeous and clever and you can just _do things_ with your _brain_ and it's amazing, it makes me want to tear all your clothes off and crawl inside your brilliant head.”

“My head isn't wearing clothes.”

John frowns. “I know that.”

“Of course you do.” Sherlock smiles a bit, uncurling his impossibly lanky self from where he's been poring over some dusty book, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. “You should really go to bed.”

And then before John's brain really has a chance to catch up to what's going on, Sherlock bends down and kisses him so gently that it practically doesn't register, and it manages to briefly penetrate the fog that is John's senses that he almost looks sad.

Sad Sherlock is unacceptable. Things have slowly started coming into focus around him and even still John just wants to touch him, wants to scrabble off his clothes and just _show_ Sherlock the things he does to him, how he doesn't understand how anyone could do anything but want him.

John shakes his head. “No. Nope. Not.”

Sherlock just raises an eyebrow at him and John somehow flails to his feet and grabs his ridiculous button-down collar, why does he even wear so many of those, and yanks him down and kisses him, no soft brush of lips this time but distinct in its intent and he feels Sherlock start kissing him back just for a second before he pulls back.

“John, you are drunk, and as much as I'm enjoying your delightfully lowered inhibitions--”

“Shut up,” he says, kissing Sherlock again, kissing _Sherlock_. “Don't pretend you haven't known I've wanted to do this since I met you.”

Sherlock's mouth twists in what isn't quite a smile. “I didn't really believe you.”

“Then you're a bit of an idiot.”

John sees Sherlock's eyes go sharper for a moment, some rapid-fire calculation that he couldn't even dream of following, and then he comes back to himself and just looks at him and smirks like he's going to devour him and John suddenly can't breathe.

“Well if that's how you feel,” he says, and pushes John so that he stumbles backward, barely having time to catch himself as he falls back on his hands and his head nearly hits the ground before Sherlock is on top of him. Sherlock's lips are on his and his tongue is in his mouth and his hands are yanking John's undershirt out of his trousers and it's just, it's amazing, he can't believe this is somehow actually happening.

“God, Sherlock,” he groans, and Sherlock exploits their break in contact to pull his jumper and t-shirt up and over John's head. Which is obviously completely unfair because Sherlock's shirt just has so many _buttons_ and it's even more unfair that Sherlock chuckles at him and pulls his shirt off over his head and the sound goes straight to his cock.

Sherlock's voice in general is unfair.

“John,” he breathes, low and harsh with a hand hovering just next to John's cheek and he can't take it, surging up off his hands to roll Sherlock over and pin him down. He shoves a hand between them, scrambling at his zipper and tugging off his trousers and pants as Sherlock does the same beneath him with more grace than he's entitled to given the situation. He sits back on his knees to allow Sherlock to kick his trousers away and silently thanks whatever flaw in the universe brought him here.

He really shouldn't have expected that Sherlock would submit quietly. Sherlock pulls him down by his wrist and rolls on top of him and _growls_ , and John can't help but arch up against him, gasping as their exposed skin finally makes contact. His head tilts up and they're kissing again, and Sherlock's mouth is hot and needy and John feels like he's carefully deconstructing every inch of him as Sherlock runs his hand over the planes of his body. He can feel the floorboards digging into his back as he pushes up, Sherlock's deft fingers dancing up his thighs and around the edges of his cock, and nearly cracks his head on their disgusting floor when Sherlock finally takes him fully in hand, making what would be a positively embarrassing keening if Sherlock weren't swallowing every noise he made. 

Sherlock's flipped some hair trigger of his own, grinding against him and gasping and when they stop to breathe he just _looks_ at John like he can't even believe what's happening and John feels a sharp flutter in his chest that he mentally files away for later under “trouble.” But that's really not important right now. Sherlock is important. Specifically naked Sherlock on top of him and so he wraps his leg around him and pulls him down as he rocks up and Sherlock buries his head in his neck and _bites_ as he comes. John feels Sherlock's groan vibrate down through his shoulder and it tips him over the edge and his fingernails dig into Sherlock's shoulders as he shudders into his orgasm.

He wakes up as light is just started to slip into the room, with a terrible cramp in his shoulder and the slight scratch of fabric against his skin, and his head pillowed on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock shifts and makes a disgruntled noise.

“Is this your coat?” John has had fantasies about this coat but this was not among them. Maybe it should have been.

“I thought we might get cold,” Sherlock mumbles, syllables half-swallowed by sleep. The man would be used to sleeping on the floor.

“Well, I am going up to my warm bed,” he says, standing slowly and with a small groan as the headache comes rushing in, and Sherlock's face seems to freeze and shutter after being so open in sleep only moments before. “That means you should come with me, you know.”

Sherlock carefully rearranges his expression back to neutral as he stands, pushing the coat off him, and John still can't actually believe that this gorgeous man is going to follow him to bed. “Come on then.”

They fall gracelessly onto the mattress and John hums quietly with contentment. “So why'd you change your mind?” he asks.

Sherlock quirks one eyebrow at him.

“Last night,” John continues. “You tried to make me stop. And then you, well, didn't.”

“Alcohol has many applications, most duller than the last,” Sherlock says, stretching his arms over his head and sighing a bit and John's mind flashes back to a fantasy of Sherlock with his arms bound over his head that suddenly seems more accessible than it did 24 hours ago.“But it doesn't create feelings out of nowhere. It only enhances what the sober mind represses.”

John shakes his head in disbelief. “Sometimes I'm not sure what I'm going to do with you.”

Sherlock's laugh rumbles out of his chest as he twines his fingers through John's hair and pulls him closer to kiss him.


End file.
